


Inflammation

by Karios



Category: Complications (TV)
Genre: F/M, First In The Fandom, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8120293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/pseuds/Karios
Summary: After the parking lot meeting, John is given an errand by his mysterious caller.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I really loved Complications, despite often watching it with my eyes half open. The series ends on such a cliffhanger that it lends itself so well to fic, and for some reason the bingo square "Meeting in a Treehouse" finally gave me the inspiration necessary to actually take a shot at it.

    It says something I'm sure about the state of my life that I don't really question it when I get there. I just tuck one end of the file in my waistband, slide my shirt over, and start my ascent up the rope ladder. The file slides up and down bouncing against my chest and my thighs but it isn't dislodged. If that isn't making the climb hard enough, my shoes slip on the first few rungs. They're slightly damp, unlevel, and aren't nearly big enough for my feet. I contemplate kicking my shoes off; it would be easier to climb barefoot, but I prefer the risk of falling onto my ass than tetanus from any one of the exposed nails. I scramble up the rest of the way, half expecting to find someone laughing at me at the top.

    But it's empty. Empty of people anyway, there's a small play chair in one corner, loaded down with first reader books and a couple of well-thumbed comics with peanut butter and jelly stains. Stooping to fit through the door, I scoot over a pillow and blanket to make room to sit on the wooden floor. I land on a few pieces of chalk that have escaped a well-loaded bucket of art supplies: various markers missing caps, broken crayons, a few crusty tubes of glitter glue. The chalk leaves a rainbow smear on the back of my scrubs. I wipe at it with my fingers, but I only succeed at spreading the stain out. I give up, and turn my attention to some of the art tacked up on the walls. Giant flowers, lopsided square houses, villages of stick people, these are the kind of things Becky would have drawn. The thought still makes my heart twist painfully in my chest.

    I am sitting here in violation of a child sacred, private space. I know the location was chosen to unsettle me. Everything my mysterious caller does is to upset me, but that knowledge doesn't make it any easier. This is only our second meeting and so I have very little idea what to expect. Well we didn't even meet the last time either, when I finally finished the insane sprint to the parking lot, I found a woman, pale and shaking. She could barely croak out my name and as I nodded she collapsed into my arms. The three minute deadline hadn't been completely arbitrary, she didn't seem to have much time. He wasn't completely heartless: a note with instructions pinned to her chest outlined exactly what he'd done to her as well as what I was to do next. I carried her in to Gretchen, who promised to take care of it, and then went to pull requested documents. That was only two days ago, but it already feels like months have passed since our shaky peace was interrupted again.

    I nudge the file out from my waistband and open it in my lap. I flip through the documents even though I've already looked through all of them in detail a few dozen times. A couple of sparse patient files, a few drug facts sheets, a copy of an x-ray, even of a couple of the general facts on disease pamphlets, none of this junk seems worth nearly killing a woman over. They are every bit as mysterious as when I spread them out on the kitchen table.

    _“Tough case?” Sam asked. She slid her arms around my neck and rested her chin on my shoulder to get a better at the collection of papers littering the table's surface._

_I turned to kiss her. “Worse.”_

_Out of the corner of my eye I watch her face twist. “But I thought...”_

_“So did I,” I interrupted. “This man claims to own the warehouse making the watered down chemotherapy. He's apparently disappointed I burned down his scam operation and has me running errands.”_

_Sam's forehead creases deepened as she pulled up the chair next to mine, and shuffled pages around. “So you're just going to give him all of this?”_

_“I don't see what else I can do. It's not like I can call the police.” I was defensive precisely because I felt as bad as Sam did about it._

_“No.” She sighed in defeat._

_“If it helps, most of this stuff is worthless.”_

_“Maybe it's like a discovery. You ask for a bunch of extra paperwork so it's not immediately obvious to opposing counsel what you're planning.”_

_“You're probably right.” I said, peering intently at one of the patent histories, trying to find any kind of pattern._

For obvious reasons this option makes neither of us feel any better. The longer I sit here on the wooden floor, lower extremities going numb, the more I disregard this explanation in favor of one that has me being found up here by the little boy or his parents and having to explain what a grown man is doing sitting in a child's treehouse.

From there it's easy to daydream the worst possible fate. The police are called, child abuse charges are filed, and all the horrors of the Antoine mess unravel at my feet. Sam and I would divorce and she'd take Ollie because true or not, an accusation like that would bring with it a Division of Families and Children case and I could never ask Sam to risk losing her last remaining child. I wonder, not for the first time, if Sam has picked the wrong man. Kyle was an unrepentant bastard, sure, and I don't regret punching his lights out on our lawn. But at least with him, she and Ollie would be safely away from all of this.

    I’m snapped out of my apocalyptic musings by the sound of the rope ladder swinging against the tree. Someone was coming up. I hastily collect the papers into a pile and set them inside the folder.

    A woman ducks through the door, so definitely not the caller. “I can explain,” I start, even though there’s no way I can think of to justify any of this because the truth is insane.

    “No need, Dr. Ellison,” she says in the kind of purr that reminds me of a Bond villainess. She plucks the file from my hands, and flips through it.

    “Are you going to tell me what this is about? Or give me your boss’s name, I sure would like to talk to him.”

    The woman shakes her head. “He’ll be in touch,” she assures me, “besides you have a more urgent call to make.”

    “To where?” I ask as she sets the corner of the file alight.

    "The fire department,” she replies calmly as she tosses the file down next to me, where the flames spread across the floor. “You’re not the only firebug in town,” she adds. As I scramble to get out of the way of the encroaching flames, I bang my head on the too short roof. I see stars and I blink rapidly to clear my watery eyes. She takes advantage of the distraction to jump to the ground below.

    I stamp out the charred file, and pocket the remains. It’s too late to save the treehouse and there isn’t anytime to mourn it. I jump down, and sprint as quickly as possible away from the scene, and wait until I’ve rounded a corner before contacting the fire department.

    Whatever this was, it was only just beginning.

  



End file.
